Language: The First Frontier
by TrekFan24905
Summary: Just the stories of the first time our favorite crew members ever spoke. Ch 9 up. Finished!
1. James Kirk

_Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. My first fanic; feedback is always welcome. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing! I do not profit, it's all for fun, and all that jazz. _

The contrast was almost laughable:

As Winona Kirk stood frantically on her tiptoes in the middle of the crowded space station hoping to locate her apparently elusive husband, the young baby in her arms nuzzled calmly into his mother's protective hold. As her panicked eyes darted rapidly here and there in search of even the slightest glimpse of George, the baby's rested easily on the passersby: most were human, but some were alien and it was the aliens that kept the young child's short attention the longest. Occasionally, he would try to grab at these strange strangers as they pushed past his mother.

"Gah, bab ba!" the baby babbled merrily as he attempted a daring reach toward the antenna of a particularly irate looking Andorian who was stomping pass.

"Yes, dear, yes," his mother replied absently, her mind still on the crowd of people before her trying to single out the one face she was looking for.

Baby James dropped his little hand in defeated and briefly stared after the Andorian before his attention was reclaimed by a passing Vulcan woman carrying a box that spouted a vicious snarl from the inside.

"We are on the right deck…" Winona muttered to herself uncertainly, snapping her head towards the large map of the station on the adjacent wall. James looked into his mother's eyes; he reached up to touch her cheek and cooed softly. She smiled down at her young son, "It's okay, baby. We'll find daddy."

As if on cue, they heard a voice call "Hey! Over here!"

Winona turned in relief to see her husband standing with her father and eldest son, George Jr.; the latter two had been standing guard at the lobby exit in case George had passed her in the confusion.

She made her way toward the rest of her family, silently thanking the Heavens that her father had been here today to catch her husband before he could go off on his next mission without a goodbye.

"Hey, beautiful. Jimmy," George greeted them admiringly with a kiss on his wife's cheek and a ruffling of his young son's hair.

"I was worried we were going to miss you," Winona admitted happily. "Nah, they wouldn't leave without me. And I wasn't about to leave until I saw you," George replied bending in for another kiss.

"Agh!" James shrieked indignantly.

His father chuckled, "Sorry, kiddo," and pecked his son affectionately on the top of his head.

A message rang out over the loud speaker, through the loud buzz floating about the station George just barely made it out. "That's my call. C'mon, you can see me off."

The small family left the lobby and headed toward the nearest turbo lift. Little James enjoyed the brief ride immensely. They were deposited on an almost empty deck, on the far end was a wall made entirely of glass. It was on the other side of that glass that Jimmy set his eyes on the most beautiful thing he'd seen all day: a massive ship, ivory white that pulsed with energy and power. Jimmy's vision locked onto it with awe and he was almost unaware of the emotional goodbye passing between his father, mother, and older brother.

"I'll be home soon, Georgie. Just six short months, then I'll be home for good. This is the last one, promise," the father said consolingly to the tearful boy. "Okay, daddy," he responded though sobs.

George then turned his attention to his wife. Jimmy's eyes were still transfixed on the glorious ship across the deck, tracing its outline and contours in wonder.

"I love you," George whispered to his young wife. They kissed.

He turned last to his baby.

"I'm gonna miss you, pal," he said sadly. "You're probably going to be walking and talking by the time I get to see you again."

But the father's words did not break the spell the magnificent ship held on the small boy. George's eyes followed Jimmy's gaze and he chuckled, "You like daddy's ship, huh?"

To his parents' surprise and enormous delight, he boy finally broke his intense lock with the ship to turn to his father and with perfect clarity he spoke his first word: "_Ship."_


	2. Spock

_Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. Spock's turn… my favorite character; I hope you guys like!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing! I do not profit, it's all for fun, and all that jazz. _

Loud bangs echoed in the cavernous kitchen as Amanda rummaged through the vast cabinets, scraping pots and pans against one another all the while, in search of the one she needed. The sounds reverberated off the high walls and amplified the sounds producing an erratic cacophony that was slightly distressing to the young Vulcan child's ears but oddly entertaining all the same.

Amanda was working quickly to prepare the end meal; her husband, Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan, was currently in his office conversing with the members of his ambassadorial staff and when he was finished Amanda was determined to have a full table waiting for him. She had been unable to cook for her husband for some time as her position at the Science Academy had kept her too occupied for tend to such things and in all honesty she was feeling guilty for that.

The banging and clanging continued as young Spock sat in his high chair toying with the dried fruit his mother had placed before him, cooing contentedly in his seat.

It was then that his attention was claimed by his mother's half-crazed muttering, "Who in their right mind would put the heaviest dishes up on the highest shelf? Where's the damn logic is increasing your chances of dropping a ten pound glass bowl on your head?" And on she grumbled quietly to herself, vowing to identify and fire the servant who was making such a simple task so unnecessarily complicated.

Spock had just redirected his attention to the date clenched in his small fist when there was a loud CRASH and his mother began hopping madly on one foot, her right hand planted firmly on the counter to keep her balance, her left cradling the toes of her left foot.

As a throbbing pain pulsed mercilessly in her toes, Amanda unleashed a string of obscenities like nothing before heard on Vulcan. As her pain subsided, she gingerly put her foot back on the stone floor. In doing so a jolt of pain grew in her big toe and shot up the length of her leg. This time she whispered just one word, barely audible… but audible nonetheless.

Little Spock promptly opened his mouth and imitated his mother perfectly. Amanda's mind snapped to her only son. A wide smile broke onto her face at the realization that her baby had just spoken his first word. But just as soon as this registered with her, so did the knowledge of just **what** he had said dawned on her. Her smile faded immediately and she shook her head.

No, Spock didn't say… that. She must have misheard him, yes, that was it! She approached her child and inquired softly, "What did you say, honey?" And she crossed her fingers hopefully.

No such luck.

He had said it, and what was worse was now he was singing it! Over and over in his sweet, innocent, baby's voice.

She had to act and quickly if she was to undo this damage: "No, baby. Say 'daddy.' 'Daddy?'" Spock considered his mother for a moment before stubbornly retorting with his newfound word.

"Oh, no! Say 'mommy!' 'Mama!' 'Mom!' Just say anything but that, Spocky," she pleaded with her son.

Nope. He was sticking to his guns and continued with his little song (it now had a noticeable pattern to it). Amanda would've smiled at the parallels between her and her son if she weren't so desperate to fix this little slip.

"But mommy said 'truck.' 'Truck,' Spock."

Spock giggled at his mother's obvious desperation and began shouting his apparent favorite word at the top of his lungs. Amanda sighed in defeat as her baby boy, kicking her while she was down, shrieked that one little word.

Too consumed in leafing through one of the countless books on parenting she had purchased not long after she learned she would be a mother, Amanda did not notice her son slip gracefully from his high chair onto the kitchen floor and begin waddling out toward the corridor. It wasn't until after she had gotten through to her own mother on a sub space message to ask her what to do, did she realize Spock was gone.

Sarek glossed over the report PADD his aide had just handed him. Yes, everything seemed to be in order. He was just about to call this little meeting to an end when a low whimpering began drifting in from the other side of the office door. The five Vulcans present turned their heads in the direction of the noise but only Sarek raised from his seat to investigate.

Outside he found his young son sitting on the cold floor, his head bowed and his hand cradled to his chest. Sarek sat down next to him so that he was as-level as could be with the small boy.

"What troubles thee, my son?" he asked, letting genuine concern mingle in his voice.

Spock raised his head to meet his father's gaze. The child's chocolate brown eyes were wide and wet with yet-to-be-shed tears. Silently he extended his right index finger for his father's inspection. Stuck there was a splinter.

Sarek, recalling his wife's lecture on how "girlfriends, driving lessons, and splinters" where to be his prerogatives as Spock's father, reached forward to remove the thing from the boy's skin.

With a quick squeeze and a small yelp from Spock, the object was removed. Sarek held it up to have another look at it and then turned to his son.

One fat tear rolled down Spock's cheek as he whispered to his father: "_Fuck_."

Sarek's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline and a look of shock spread across his face. It took him only 1.25 seconds to recompose himself. When he had regained control of his voice box he called out the first word that came to his mind: "Amanda!!"

_Whatcha think? I'm doing McCoy next… I'll try to upload soon, but it could be awhile so be patient. _


	3. Leonard McCoy

Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. Yay, chapter 3! It's McCoy's turn.

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, blah blah blah, I make no profit, yak yak yak, now, on with the story! _

The hot Georgian sun beat down mercilessly in the midday sky as a young Leonard McCoy sat lazily in the shadow of a large elm tree next to his home. The grass, protected by the great tree's presence, was cool on the young child's arms and legs; so much so that he was reluctant to get up even for the cookies and lemonade his mother had just set out for him on the porch. His comfort under the tree warred with his insatiable need for sweets, and, as it usually did, the cookies won.

Peeling himself from his little sanctuary away from the endless sun, Lenny tottered onto the porch to snatch the plate of fresh made cookies and clutched it to himself possessively before retreating with it to a darkened quarter of the porch, just out of reach of the heat.

He chewed happily as a truck pulled up toward the house. Out hopped Timothy, Leonard's father's cousin who had been staying with the McCoy's while he searched for work. Fresh out of school, Timothy was only 25 and seeking a career in intergalactic politics. He'd had little luck.

Lenny's father David emerged from the interior of the house then, holding two glasses filled with a substance Lenny remembered for having once been punished for trying to drink.

"Mint julep, Tim?" David asked already knowing the answer. Timothy grabbed the glass and drank heartily. When he pulled the drink back from his lips he launched immediately into a rant about his latest peeve against what he had recently begun to refer to as "the hunt."

"I've filled out hundreds of applications! Gone on God knows how many interviews! Do you think I could get a call back? Even just to say 'we don't think you'd be a good fit here?' No sir!" he took another drink before continuing. "I mean it's not like I'm trying to start out on the top; I'm willing to work as an aide then move my way up. But these people are so… ugh," he said when he couldn't think of a better description, "that they wouldn't trust me to clean their shoes! I'm not an idiot! I've got the papers to prove it! They just seem determined to rob me of this chance…"

David nodded sympathetically to his cousin before discreetly turning to Lenny, rolling his eyes. He'd been putting up with this self-pitying attitude for weeks now and it was getting old fast.

While Timothy took another swig, David seized the opportunity to turn on the vintage radio he kept out on the porch, hoping some music would shut his cousin up. Not really listening for any particular station, he turned the knob until something came in, then he sat down.

Young Lenny was still nibbling at his cookies when his father made a move to grab one himself. Lenny tensed, withdrew the plate to behind his back, and let out a sound reminiscent to the hiss of a rabid raccoon. David couldn't resist a smile as he withdrew his hand and held up the other in a sign of goodwill and defeat.

"Dave, could you come here a minute?" Len's mom called from inside the house. David rose from his chair, quickly finished off his drink, and headed inside to see what she wanted. Timothy sat lost in his own thoughts and Lenny returned to his cookies.

Over the radio a new song took the place of John Lennon's _Imagine_, this one too was centuries old but the music still prompted the young boy's attention. He enjoyed the beat and he tapped his foot in time to it.

Then came the lyrics: "_When I was young it seemed that life was so wonderful, a miracle…"_

Lenny babbled in appreciation and attempted to repeat the words of the song as best as his baby language allowed.

"_And all the birds in the trees, well they'd be singing so happily, joyfully…"_

" Da gab bah-ha gab bah da de…"

"_But then they sent me away to teach me how to be sensible, logical…"_

"Muh muh da gah da gow… _'logical'_…"

There was a gasp somewhere to his left and Lenny turned to see his mother and father, each holding a plate of drinks and sandwiches, their mouths gaping. "Leonard!" David breathed in disbelief, "What did you just say?" A smile was lighting up the man's face.

"Bah bah _'logical'_ da gah."

"His first word!" Mrs. McCoy announced as her eyes began to water with tears of pride. "And what a word!" David continued overcome with joy. Most kids started out with easy stuff like "dog" or "mom" – not his boy!

"So?" Timothy added, "So he talked, big deal. We all can talk! Hell, I started talking at least two months earlier than him."

"Yes, but your first word was 'poop,'" David retorted, acid in his voice. But his smile returned as he faced his son again, "My boy's a genius!"

Timothy sighed. Parents.

xxx

A week later, Timothy was at his wit's end. The job hunt wasn't getting any easier. He had had a meeting at the Vulcan Embassy earlier that day which went, shall we say, less than desirable.

"They said I wouldn't be a 'logical' candidate!" he stormed, "According to the job description I'd've been nothing more than the cabinet's errand boy! Not logical!" Tim now seethed in his chair. His attitude wasn't improved by Lenny: since that day on the porch all the boy ever seemed to do was walk around saying "logical" and his parents encouraged it to Timothy's dismay.

Stupid Vulcans Tim thought now, at the moment he was alone in the den. As he switched on the TV he saw the image of the new Vulcan ambassador to Earth, Sarek they said his name was. Tim scoffed. "Look at this stiff," he muttered to himself, "I wouldn't want to work for him anyway."

Just then Lenny wobbled into the room. Upon seeing the face of the young Vulcan as he spoke on about the pros and cons of negotiating a treaty with the Tellorites, Lenny pointed at the image and said, "_Logical!"_

That was it. Tim shut off the TV and stalked over to Lenny then bent down on his knee. "No! No more 'logical!' I don't wanna hear it anymore!" A confused Leonard tried to understand his elder's sudden outburst. After a moment he asked, "'_Logical' _nuh-uh?"

"Yes," Tim replied, "'Logical' nuh-uh. 'Logical' is very bad, it's a very, very bad word! Don't say it anymore."

Lenny's icy blue eyes widened as tears welled up in them. "Oh, it's okay, buddy. You aren't in trouble or anything. Just don't say it anymore, okay?" Tim prodded. Lenny gave a nod and slumped off sadly to his room.

Xxx

The next night Len and Timothy were sitting in the living room. Lenny was bent over the new toy his father had given him: an antique game called "Operation." Little Leonard quickly understood the object of the game and was now using the tiny prongs to deftly remove his "patient's" heart. Tim was talking to an old friend from school, complaining again.

"It's madness! Like, just the other day I made a trip all the way to San Francisco to interview with the Vulcans and you know what they said? That I wasn't a 'logical' choice!"

Lenny's eyes snapped to his second cousin at the mention of the now forbidden word. He grunted angrily and shrieked at Time "Nuh-hu!" Tim waved off the child's anger and finished his conversation.

Lenny returned to his game, still annoyed. Tim pondered this: You know? I've probably scarred him for life.

Since he had confronted the child, Lenny refused to repeat the "evil" word, even at his father's request – begging actually – and any vocalizing of the "bad" term now resulted in an indignant fit from the boy.

Timothy thought on this, wondering what kind of influence a hatred of the word "logical" could have on Little Leonard's future.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud, shrill buzzing that made both of the room's occupants jump. The game forceps Lenny had been using to extract a bone from the game board touched the sensitive metal and set off the noise and caused the "patient's" nose to shine bright red.

Tim and Len looked at each other for a moment after the noise had stopped, but the new fallen silence was again broken, this time when Lenny opened his lips to state in perfect English: "_He's dead, Tim."_

_And that was McCoy! I indulged with this one a bit more but I just had to throw in his catchphrase somehow =) I don't know what I'll do for Scotty, Chekov, or Sulu yet so the next chapter will either be Nurse Chapel or Uhura. And FYI the song was "The Logical Song" by Supertramp… I do not own that either… or the game Operation. Okay, I think I covered everything. Feel free to comment!_


	4. Christine Chapel

Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. Nurse Chapel this time… maybe not as funny as the last two chapters, but sweet nonetheless.

_Disclaimer: As always, nothing is mine. It's all for fan appreciation._

xxx

"Say 'mama?' Say 'cookie?' Say… anything?" Young Christine Chapel's mother pleaded again with her small daughter. The little girl only looked back at the woman blankly then shoved her tiny fist into her mouth. Her mother sighed and tried again, this time picking up the sip-cup on the high chair tray and pointing at it, "'Cup?'"

Muffled giggles squeezed out around Christine's tiny fingers as a tiny crease formed between Mrs. Chapel's eyebrows.

"Stop pushing her. She'll talk when she's ready," grumbled Christine's father who was currently perusing the refrigerator.

Christine's mom turned to face her husband, "But if she doesn't start speaking by fourteen months, she'll have missed an essential milestone and then she'd be behind all the other kids her age!"

Mr. Chapel rolled his eyes, "And **who** says this?"

"Every doctor, in every book I've read on child development," she countered fervently. Again she received an eye roll. "This isn't a joke! This is your daughter's social and intellectual growth!"

"She's fine," Mr. Chapel insisted as he straightened up and shut the fridge door. "Let's face it, Honey, these doctors are quacks. And those books are an elaborate joke pushed on us by their publishers and the Medical Bureau to needlessly worry already concerned mothers and suck credits from our accounts."

His wife rounded on him irately, "Are you calling Dr. Benjamin Spock a quack?!"

He was taken aback at his young wife's reaction; he wasn't trying to start an argument especially not in front of the baby. He had to salvage this quick, after clearing his throat he spoke, "Babe, the guy lived centuries ago. He might not have been a quack **then**, but now he's outdated. We know a lot more today about everything and so his… **wisdom** is obsolete. They're swindling our credits by brain washing you into thinking that you need these ancient books to be a decent parent. Chrissie's fine, she doesn't need a damn manual and she doesn't have to adhere to some dead guy's ideal of 'proper childhood development.'"

"How could you say that?" the woman hissed in disbelief. "How could you ever suggest that Dr. Spock is… is… just trying to take our money and to hell with everything and everyone else?"

"Hey, I never said that!" her husband responded defensively, "First off, the guy's long dead so he can't possibly be 'taking our money' and second, I was only saying --"

"But you **did** say I was brain washed?" she demanded. "Well… not exactly, Hon…" he faltered, desperately trying to turn this one around.

"I'll have you know, **Love**," she spat angrily, "that all the nurses I've talked to recommended Dr. Spock as well. In fact, there was one nurse…"

But the rest of the argument was lost to baby Christine's ears. She was fixated on that strange word again. She had heard her parents casually toss it around for a long time now and it never failed to intrigue her. So strange it sounded to her young ears. Her mother's raised voice drowned out the sound to the two adults, but there in the tiny kitchen Christine whispered to herself her first word: _"Spock."_

xxx

And that's a wrap for chapter 4! Wow, I'm getting these up a lot quicker than I expected… hope you guys can keep up, ha ha. Uhura will be next, then I'll have to take some time to consider what I'll do for the remaining three characters so that might take a little while. Toodles!


	5. Nyota Uhura

Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. Next up at bat: Uhura!

Disclaimer: I own nothing (not even the shoes I'm wearing now… wait! I'm not wearing shoes). I profit from nothing… that's right, absolutely broke! Now if I may…

xxx

It was beautiful.

The Kenyan sky was endless as it hovered just out of reach of the baby girl's curious hands. Millions of stars burned majestically in the night lighting the small campsite as several children played in their soft glow.

Sitting on the cool grass, settled away from the other campers where the young baby and her mother. Cuddled together under the stars, the young woman laughed softly to herself at the wonder in her child's bright eyes.

"What's that, Ny?" the girl's mother asked her in a gentle voice, looking with her precious child to the heavens above them. "What are those?" she smiled pointing now toward the brightest one. "Is that a star, Nyota?"

Nyota sat silently, still immersed in the magnificence of the celestial masterpiece above her.

Her mother's hand dropped back to her lap breaking the child's trance. She then pointed her own little finger to the sky and repeated with awe: "Star."

xxx

And that's Uhura's story. Short I know, sorry about that, but I think it's fitting: short and sweet. Well that's all for now. As always feel free to leave a comment, your feedback is appreciated. Until next time, bye!

Fun fact: Nyota is the Swahili word for star =)


	6. Montgomery Scott

Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. Chapter 6: Scotty!! Finally =)

Disclaimer: Not mine.

xxx

Three-year old Montgomery Scott sat slumped down once again in the waiting room of the psychiatrist's office with his mother. As he listened habitually for his name to be called, Monty toyed idly with a hunk of metal that had once been the mechanical toy aircar his father had given him on his birthday.

Since their baby boy began crawling and exploring his environment, Mr. and Mrs. Scott had noticed that little Monty showed an intense interest in the workings of various things. For instance, when he was only eight months old he had to be rushed to the emergency room to have an ancient device once known as a VCR removed from his fat little arm. His uncle had brought the odd contraption to the house after he had purchased it at an auction in the hopes that Monty's parents could tell him what it was, or rather, what it did. Little Montgomery was fascinated by the machine and was apparently trying to illicit some action from it when his arm became lodged inside it. Then there was the time just a few months after that incident that Monty all but gave his mother a heart attack: she had found him examining the living room ceiling fan from atop a very sophisticated – but very lopsided – ladder that the boy had constructed himself just for the job. As she shakily pulled him off the makeshift ladder, her son fought with her for a moment more to look at the fan so that he could figure what made it go around. After that, Monty's parents kept him up in nifty, **safe** machines to keep his curiosity appeased. He very much liked to take these things apart and study their inner mechanisms. Occasionally, if he was particularly found of a given object, he would put them back together so that they worked perfectly, but more often than not it's ransacked remains would be found lying in a corner somewhere in the house.

Yes, Montgomery's parents had noticed his interest and skill with such things and they recognized that this made him special. But they noticed other things about their son as well. Like that while all the other children his age were beginning to speak and communicate coherently, Monty remained silent.

At first this did not bother the young parents, they brushed it off as a minor happenstance and that their son would start talking when he was ready. But as his second birthday approached with no intelligible words from the boy, they began to worry. Montgomery was taken to his pediatrician for a full checkup and several scans to see if there was a physical or neurological reason why the child wasn't speaking. When all results claimed the boy was fit in every way, his mother really started worrying.

"His larynx is fully developed, the scans show no sign of trauma or deformity that would render him a mute. And his brain is growing just as it should, no problems there. I see no reason why this boy shouldn't be talking by now," the kind doctor had said, "Except…"

"What?" Mrs. Scott demanded, her eyes wide. "Well," continued the doctor, "it could be psychological."

Mrs. Scott took a moment to process this, "Are you saying my son's crazy?!"

"No!" she reassured the mother, "It could be lots of things I'm sure, but certainly not insanity. Maybe he's stunted. I don't pretend to be an expert in the area and my instruments aren't calibrated for this kind of work. Listen, I have a friend, he's one of the leading officials in child psychiatry, I'm sure he'd be willing to take a look at Montgomery and see what's what."

The doctor provided the family with the proper information, made a call, and wished them luck. And since then young Monty had been going to visit this child psychiatrist once every two weeks for the past year. There had been no progress; the specialist could not identify any specific reason why Montgomery would not talk and the child remained as silent as ever.

Still the child and his mother made the trip to this office every other Friday for follow-ups on the doctor's insistence that Montgomery needed his help. Monty ran his fingers over the desecrated toy aircar once again before dropping it to lie on the floor under his chair.

"Montgomery Scott?" came a voice from the front desk. Monty and his mother rose from their seats to see Dr. McDowell.

ooo

Three hours later Monty and his mom stepped into their home and were immediately greeted by their large and rather sloppy Mastiff, Captain. Monty played with the huge dog while his mother filled in Mr. Scott on this week's session. It had gone as always: Dr. McDowell showed Montgomery different pictures and tried to talk to him for forty-five minutes until Monty got bored and finally began wandering around the room looking for something worth taking apart. Then McDowell took the remaining fifteen minutes of the session to tell Mrs. Scott how he believed Monty was "intellectually challenged" which almost always resulted in a pained whimper from the young mother.

Mr. Scott was getting increasingly impatient with this Dr. McDowell; it was obvious the man wasn't doing much to help his son, yet he charged an arm and a leg in credits for these little get-togethers and all he could come up with was that the boy was… well he wasn't! His boy was brighter than most, just look at how he is with machines.

Monty's father fumed over his meal that night. "Quacks," he kept muttering to himself.

Mrs. Scott tried to ignore her husband's attitude, while Monty worked covertly on transporting the lima beans from his plate to Captain's willing mouth under the table.

His mother caught him though and shook a finger at him, "You better not be feeding your vegetables to the dog!"

Monty smiled sheepishly, pulled his hands from under the table, and very deliberately placed them flat down on the surface. His mother squinted her eyes at him but returned to her own meal.

His parents had started talking about something that held no interest for Monty, when Captain the Dog began pawing insistently at the boy's leg. He pushed, well, he **tried **to push the animal away and he shook his head at him. The dog wasn't giving up that easy, he began nibbling at Monty's ankles summoning a fit of giggles that the boy strived desperately to hold in.

After a while, Captain just decided that since he would be given no more food he would simply have to poke his head out from under the table and snatch the food off his young owner's plate. Monty saw this coming, and without thinking he blurted out, "Nah! I cannae give yeh any more. It's all I've got, Cap'n!"

The dog looked at its master with pleading eyes, but Monty's attention was on his parents who had dropped their forks and stared in amazement at their boy. Captain took the lapse in supervision to clear Monty's plate.

Mrs. Scott's eyes had welled up in tears, her arms stretched out towards her son as if she wished to hug him. Mr. Scott on the other hand had gone red in the face and advanced on the boy: "AH HA! So you **can** talk then, eh? I knew there was nothing wrong with you! All this time the doctors claimed 'Oh, he needs treatment' but all along you were perfectly fine. Why haven't you started talking sooner? ANSWER ME?!"

Monty had sunk lower and lower into his chair with his father's every word. He stared up at him now from the near-floor. He considered a moment then simply answered, "Well, I s'pose I jus' didn't have anything worth sayin' 'til now…"

Mr. Scott stood dumbfounded a moment before a wide smile broke out across his face.

"My boy," he said lovingly. "Get your shoes on, Monty, we've got us a quack to see!"

xxx

Alright, I finally got chapter six up! What do you think? Chekov will be next, but it might be a little while until I post again. Until then, I hope you enjoyed!


	7. Pavel Chekov

_Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. I'm ba-ack, and I've brought Chekov with me! Sorry so long in updating, my creativity went on hiatus. _

_Disclaimer: I do NOT own Star Trek or its characters._

xxx

Young Pavel Chekov sat planted firmly before the illuminated television, his face just inches from the screen as his glazed-looking eyes clung to the colorful images flashing on and off of it in time to the nimble fingers manipulating the controller in his grasp. His father, unbeknownst to the small child, had just entered the family's tiny den and was sneaking slowly up toward his son's turned back. Once within reach, Andrei snatched his boy by the shoulders and shouted "Boo!"

Pavel calmly completed the current level of the educational videogame he had been devotedly playing as if his father were not present and then turned to fix him with a reproachful glare for having disturbed this most beloved of pastimes.

Andrei Chekov chuckled at his son's complete lack of a startled reaction to the small scare and retreated to the plush couch on his left. Once settled, he patted the spot next to him invitingly and little Pavel tottered over to join him. After a few failed attempts on his own, Andrei lifted the child and displaced him atop the middle cushion of the sofa.

"How about some music, Pav?" he asked while reaching for the remote on the end table. The boy bounced happily on the spot as his father browsed their music library, all the while marveling at Pavel's curiosity and love for anything intellectually simulating. He selected a personal favorite, a piece from Nabokov's _Lyrical Symphony_, and the two relaxed back as the music rushed into the room.

The child beamed as the notes washed through his ears and he attempted to keep up with the masterful rhythm using his own hands. "You like it, huh?" Andrei asked, looking down proudly at his son.

What a clever boy he was! Just barely over a year old and he was already writing proficiently and practicing arithmetic with the aid of academic softwares, games, and programs his parents enthusiastically provided for him. They had taken their son to a childhood development specialist when they noticed their child's aptitude for learning. There they were told that Pavel possessed a considerably high IQ for his age and he was branded a child prodigy, or, in the doctor's exact words, a "whiz kid."

Andrei could've burst from the pride he held for Pavel. Not only was his boy a miniature genius, but he already seemed to hold a strong appreciation for his Russian heritage, a trait that Andrei was more than glad to pass to his only child.

"It's an excellent piece, isn't it, Pavel?" he asked the boy again. Pavel nodded his head vigorously in agreement.

"You'll find that many of the finest composers were Russian, Pavel: Nabokov, Gladkov, Mosolov, Berezowsky, Kukin, Nikitina…." He continued on as his wife entered the room, a glass held in her hand. She paused in the doorway to watch the exchange from father to son.

"In fact, son, we Russians have proven ourselves more than exceptional in many facets, like literature, art," Andrei boasted on, "Let's see, we've got Anton Chekov, Leo Tolstoy, Andrei Rublev…" he stated, counting each name off on his fingers.

Once he had finished his list – which was not lacking in the least – he turned to his son seriously, "Always remember this, my boy: **All** good things have come from Russia." Pavel bowed his head solemnly, his unquestioning belief in his father's words seizing hold of him and embedding deeply into his loyal mind.

Mrs. Chekov approached them then, smiling to herself. When she reached her husband she extended the glass into the air between them, "Vodka?"

Small Pavel snapped to attention as his hand shot out toward the offered drink, with perfect clarity and confidence he spoke: "_Me, please!_"

His parents stood in a brief, stunned silence. After a moment, a wide grin broke out on Andrei's face. "Not for children, Pavel," he said with an affectionate pat on his son's head, "when you're older."

Andrei turned to face his wife, "A true Russian boy, this one, isn't he? Ha! Already he –" but the statement faded into silence as he registered the icy glare emanating from the young mother.

"Don't encourage my son to drink!" she snapped hotly, "And stop implying that being a 'true Russian boy' means having to like Vodka!!"

"Hey, don't blame me," Andrei replied defensively, "it's **you** he takes after!"

xxx

_And that's chapter 7, hope I haven't disappointed any of you Chekov fanatics! =)_

_Sulu will be next and I'll try to get it up ASAP; thanks for your patience._


	8. Hikaru Sulu

_Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. Chapter the Eighth: Sulu._

_Disclaimer: Star Trek: not mine, not now, not ever._

xxx

"_Cookie!"_

The simple – and delicious – word echoed loudly off the tiled walls and floors of the impressive white kitchen. To any outsider looking in, such a declaration would have seemed ordinary and unworthy of notice or mention. But to the young mother standing dumbstruck at the kitchen sink, this was a momentous occasion.

Yes, it had finally happened. Her baby boy had just taken his first step into the intricate realm of verbal communication. Little Hikaru had spoken his first word!

The bouncy baby regarded his mother's wide-eyed expression with a look almost as awed as hers before bursting into a fit of infectious bubbly giggles. With a smile brighter than the stars, the elated young woman raised her pride and joy from his _Treasure Island_ highchair and glided out of the room with him to announce the milestone to her husband.

ooo

The glowing pair found their elusive target ten minutes later, looming over a desk stacked high with data PADD's and two computer terminals running diagnostics in the basement.

So immersed in his work, the diligent man did not hear his wife's soft footfalls as they entered, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when she cleared her throat to make their presence known. Baby Hikaru found his father's reaction a comic masterpiece and laughed until he choked on his own breath prompting his mother to give him a firm pat on the back.

"Is there something wrong?" Mr. Sulu asked after Hikaru was settled.

She shook her head, a wide grin still covering her face. "No, everything is just fine. Do you know what your son just did?"

As she recalled the episode up in kitchen, a proud smile broke out on the young man's lips. "That's my boy! Sharp as a tack, isn't he?"

"He certainly knows what he wants," Mrs. Sulu laughed.

Refusing to be left out of the exchange, Hikaru interjected with a rather shrill "_cookie!"_

"Speaking of knowing what one wants," Mr. Sulu said, "you'd better get him a cookie before he runs amok!" Mrs. Sulu nodded her agreement and carried her son back upstairs feeling so happy she thought she might float.

ooo

Mrs. Sulu was unhappy. Two weeks had passed since that day in the kitchen. Since then baby Hikaru had picked up several new words. But…

"All he seems to care about is food!" the young mom confessed to her own mother as the two of them sat facing each other at the kitchen table. Hikaru wriggled in his highchair off to the right of the table, watching their discussion with veiled interest. "I've checked with all my friends and I read that child development book you gave me. Basically every baby in the galaxy adds 'mom' or some form of it to his vocabulary by his fifth word but mine!"

The older woman considered her daughter solemnly. She vividly remembered the ecstatic call she had received just twelve days prior from her youngest child announcing the boy's first word. But now, she appeared dejected, hurt, even frustrated. "Why do you let it trouble you? All children learn differently, you know that."

"Yes, I know. It's just… Well, just think where I must rate in his value system!"

The grandmother almost choked on her tea. "'Value system'?" Hearty laughter pulsed off the walls as the older woman shook with it. She always knew her child had never been the brightest bulb of the bunch, but come _on_!

"He's just a baby! He doesn't have a _value system_!" she gasped once she had regained control of herself.

Stung by her mother's reaction, Mrs. Sulu replied defensively, "Well, he's human! He can laugh and cry and feel. And as far as I can tell he loves his desert more than me!"

Hikaru's grandmother's face fell blank. Her eyes locked onto her child's and she spoke with just a hint of incredulity, "Daughter, you're jealous of a snickerdoodle!"

"Nana, I –"

"Hush now. Listen. You're the one who cleans that boy. You keep him warm and dry. You protect him, you play with him, and you love him. He may not be able to say it, but he loves you, too. And I think it's really selfish of you to think he doesn't. Just look at him: he dotes after you!"

Mrs. Sulu sighed. "I know that. It just hurts, you know?" The younger woman looked at her son briefly before continuing. "I guess I just can't resolve within myself why he'd learn words like 'cookie,' 'milk,' and 'banana' before 'mommy.'"

The elder exhaled quickly in irritation. "And I still say it's plain selfishness on your part. After all you're – Wait a minute," she paused as if she'd just grasped some previously misunderstood subject. "Do you mean to tell me that that little baby can say 'banana' already? Really?"

"Huh?" the young woman responded, thrown off guard by the unexpected change of subject. "Oh, well, yes, sort of. He tries anyway. It comes out more like '_nuna_,' though." She finished, a faint smile playing at her lips.

Mrs. Sulu thought she saw the familiar grimace of contemplation flash over her mother's face, but forgot it when at last the older woman continued. "Well, as I was saying, you're getting yourself wound up over nothing. He'll come around in due time, you'll see. He loves you."

Mrs. Sulu nodded glumly. "I guess you're right, Nana. I just can't help the way I fell. I – HIKARU!"

In just a few seconds, that seemed to stretch into hours, baby Hikaru Sulu had raised himself out of his highchair just enough to extend a chubby hand to the kitchen counter and wrap his tiny fist around the handle of a small, but sharp knife.

Mrs. Sulu felt blinded by the ominous glint of the metal as it caught the light. Why was that just lying out? How could anyone have been so careless? Her mind whirled as it processed the images before her at warpspeed: her son, her baby. A knife. A knife in his fragile little hand. A terrifying bright shine as it cut through the air. Through the air closer to her son. Closer to her baby.

Beyond thought, Mrs. Sulu launched herself from her seat and all but flew to the baby, snatching the knife away just as Hikaru was bringing the deadly point to his lips. Once the thing was at a safe distance from her child, she instinctively searched his hands and face for cuts. Satisfied that he was uninjured, she gave a sigh of relief before her eyes hardened.

Sticking her index finger in his direction she commanded, "We don't play with knives in this house, Hikaru. _Big_ no-no! You could've hurt yourself! No. No. _No_. No! NO!"

It wasn't until she felt her mother grab at her arm and shake that she realized she had been yelling it all. She watched guiltily as baby Hikaru's eyes welled up into big circles glistening with tears and saw his bottom lip pop out to tremble. She could feel her mother's glare boring into the side of her head as the testy sound of her toe tapping on the floor mingled with the baby's weak sobs.

Her head fell in shame and she turned her back to both of them before speaking, "I – I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"You _do_ know, of course, that you terrified him!" The words hit her like ice. "Yes, I know, Nana. I'm so sorry," she broke, close to tears herself. The older woman could hear the pain in her daughter's voice. She had always been a very emotional child.

"_Cookie_?"

The whispered word broke the tense silence. Mrs. Sulu swiped quickly at her cheeks before facing her son. She turned to see him holding out a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie to her, as if to offer it as a sign of his remorse. Her heart wrenched at the gesture, and she lifted her son from his chair and hugged him close.

"_Sorry, Nuna_," he cried into her ear. Mrs. Sulu squeezed her eyes tightly shut to stop the tears and whispered back, "No, baby. _I'm_ sorry."

ooo

Once the melodrama had passed and the baby had been put down for his nap, the mother and daughter sat again at the table to talk.

"You're distracted," the elder commented after awhile, "you aren't still upset are you?"

"No," the other responded calmly, "just a bit puzzled."

"About?"

"About why my son apologized to a banana a few minutes ago."

Her mother huffed impatiently, "Don't you _get_ it?" When she received only a blank look in return she went on irritably, "_You're_ 'Nuna,' girl. He wasn't saying 'banana,' he was saying 'Nana!'"

Mrs. Sulu only looked more confused. "Nana? Why not 'mom' or 'mama' or 'mommy'? Why do you think he'd call me 'Nana,' Nana?"

The old woman rolled her eyes, "Gee, I have _no_ idea," then muttered tiredly under her breath, "Kids."

xxx

And there you have it, ladies and gents! To be perfectly honest, this was the hardest one for me to write. They never really did much for Sulu's character in the series so he was a very difficult one for me to gauge. So I just did what I could with what I had. I just hope I haven't disappointed any of you die-hard Suluers out there.

_As always enjoy and feel free to comment. Adieu! _


	9. Janice Rand

_Description: Little stories about everybody's favorite crew's first words. Bonus Chapter: Janice Rand!!_

_This one was written at the bequest of my little sister (You're welcome, Shortie). Rand is another one of those Trek characters that got very little attention in the show and movies, and what little she did get was usually fluff and nothing that developed a personality you could run with. So I just did this under the assumption that she was the loveable but sneaky trickster she always struck me as. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. _

xxx

"_Mama_!" shrieked little Janice Rand as she stretched her tiny hands out to the young woman who had just walked through the front door.

"Did you hear that?" the lady asked her husband delightedly, "She said 'Mama.' Her first word!" The couple crowded around their baby girl as the house sitter explained: "She's been doing that _all_ day. She really missed you, Mrs. Rand."

Janice's mom smiled, "You hear that, honey? She missed me!" Mr. Rand grinned in return. But as his wife turned to lift the child from the couch he couldn't hide the small flicker of jealously that streaked across his features.

ooo

Later that evening, Mr. Rand pulled his daughter's highchair next to his seat at the table and began coaching the girl.

"Da-dee. D-ah-dee. Say 'daddy,' Jan."

The baby regarded her father with an almost suspicious look in her blue eyes.

"'Daddy.' Say 'daddy,' Sweetie."

Janice gave a tiny smirk before replying stubbornly, "_Mama_."

Her father's shoulders drooped in disappointment then he tried again. "No, baby girl. I'm your daddy. Say it with me: 'Daddy.'"

The girl smiled brightly as she declared confidently, "_Mama_!"

"No, Sweetums. 'Daddy.' 'Dad?' 'Da-da?'" The baby giggled at a mischievous thought her father had no way of knowing before she summoned up a look of concentration. She leaned in close to her father and began sounding, "D-d-duh. Da-"

"Yes!" Mr. Rand exclaimed encouragingly, "'Daddy!' That's right you've got it!"

"D-d-d-d-d-" the sound fell slightly, as if her confidence was faltering. Her father kneeled down to her level, "No, you're right. 'Daddy.' You can say it!"

Janice's face lit up at the anticipation and expectancy in his voice and she continued impishly, "Da-duh-"

"Yes!"

"_Mama_!!"

The room exploded with the sound of Janice's unbridled giggles. She wasn't sure which was funnier, her own ingenious game or the look of incredulity that swept over her father's face when he realized he had lost it.

He relaxed his features into an understanding smile and coaxed gently, "No, baby girl. 'Daddy.' Not 'Mama.' 'Daddy.'"

"_MAMA_!" she shrieked again before collapsing into hysterical laughter.

ooo

Mr. Rand had not given up in his quest. He reserved an hour out of every afternoon trying to get his only child to refer to him as a father. He had had no luck.

Janice continued to toy with him, pretending to cooperate and then spurning him at the last minute. It had quickly become her favorite pastime and she looked forward to the evening with her father every morning.

The two of them would be in the kitchen. Him in his seat, here in her highchair, locked in an epic battle of wills.

"'Daddy!'"

"_Mama_!"

"'Daddy!!'"

"_Mama_!!"

"No, 'Daddy!!'"

"_**MAMA**_!!"

After a bit of their stubborn arguing, Mr. Rand would sit in a tense silence, his face red with frustration.

"Why don't you just give it up, Bill?" his wife would ask.

"Because that's what _she_ wants!"

"What?"

"Don't you see? This is a challenge! She's trying to undermine me! I just know it! This is a _game_ to her!"

Mrs. Rand looked at him, momentarily at a loss for words.

"Bill," she finally said, "she's an _infant_. She doesn't think in terms of me vs. you. You're making this into something it's not."

He laughed, "Ha! That's what she _wants_ you to think."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. She's looking for weakness, trying to break me. But it's not gonna happen!" he emotionally declared, punching his fist into the air above his head dramatically.

His wife shook her head and sighed before walking out. As she passed her husband she said to him quietly, "Bill, you're losing your mind."

When they were alone, baby Janice laughed her pleasure then pointed to her father calling clearly, "_Bill_!"

Mr. Rand inhaled deeply, turned on his heel to face the girl and spoke passionately, "That's _Mr_. Bill to you!"

xxx

That's it! The conclusion of my 'Language' stories. I hope you all enjoyed. I'd like to give a special thanks to all the people who started reading from the very beginning and stuck by through the outrageously long update periods. And thanks to everyone who commented and favorited. Live long and prosper! 


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